


Sun in Your Heart

by scribblemoose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2420609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemoose/pseuds/scribblemoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles keeps turning up at the Loft, and Derek isn't sure what to make of it. He just knows it's annoying. </p><p>Inspired by <a href="http://geeky-sova.tumblr.com/post/99431632349/for-skyler-press-thank-you-so-much-for-taking">this wonderful piece of art by Geeky-Sova</a>.</p><p>(Title from 'Singing in the Rain'. Because it's late and I couldn't help it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun in Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for [Geeky-Sova](http://archiveofourown.org/users/skyler_press/pseuds/skyler_press), inspired by her gorgeous, gorgeous art, and for [ Skyler](http://archiveofourown.org/users/skyler_press/pseuds/skyler_press), who commissioned said art in the [Tyler Hoechlin's birthday charity auction](http://hoechlinauction.livejournal.com), and provided the original inspiration for the art.
> 
> With thanks to the Squee!Pack for cheerleading and beta-reading at very short notice!

It wasn't an entirely regular thing. Derek could never be sure when it would happen, or even why. But every now and then Stiles would just arrive at the loft, alone, without warning, and make himself at home. It didn't matter whether Derek had plans, or had just settled down with a good book, or was in the middle of anything important. Stiles claimed to need none of Derek's attention; he apparently just wanted to _be_ there. But Derek found it irritatingly difficult to put his attention anywhere else when Stiles was around. So there was usually a mild sort of argument, followed by a brief sulk and inexplicable arousal and sex of some kind. 

Often they'd fall asleep in Derek's bed, exhausted, and only wake hours later when Scott called to tell Stiles he was late for school, or lacrosse practice, or that Stiles' dad was looking for him. Then Stiles would flail and rush frantically through showering, dressing and scooping his things into his backpack before he fumbled his way out of the door. Leaving Derek slightly stunned, suddenly alone with pillows that smelt of Stiles, an eerie silence and absolutely no idea what was going on.

On this particular night, it was raining. Stiles appeared at Derek's door looking extremely pissed-off and soaked to the skin, water dripping from his hair and clothes and skin to pool on the polished concrete at his feet. He smelt of the unique Beacon Hills mix of gasoline-tarmac streets and earth-fresh forest - and anger. 

Little droplets of rain streaked down Stiles' cheek, and Derek may have considered what it would be like to lick them off.

"Fucking taxi driver," said Stiles, shaking his arms out and distributing a fine spray of water to everything in a five yard radius in the process. "Just two blocks away, massive puddle. He must have seen me, he didn't have to _accelerate_ through it. For fuck's sake."

Stiles' skin was so pale it was almost translucent, and his teeth were chattering.

"Go get in the shower," said Derek. "I'll put your things in the drier."

"You have a drier? Here?"

"Yes," said Derek, defensive for some reason he couldn't fathom. 

"Oh, cool. I always figured you'd have to go down to the basement or something, and that would suck with you living all the way up here." 

"Yes, Stiles, it would. That's why I have one in the utility room."

"You have a _utility_ room? Man, you're full of surprises tonight." Stiles dropped his backpack on the top stair, toed his sodden Converse off with a squeak and a grimace, and dripped his way into the living area. 

"Just get in the shower," said Derek. "There's clean towels on the radiator. Leave your things outside the door."

Stiles winked at him, and headed off to the bathroom, leaving a little trail of wet footprints behind him. Derek sighed and shook his head to himself as he made his way to the kitchen. There was chicken soup left over from lunch; he put it on a low heat to warm through. He heard the shower start and went to fetch Stiles' clothes. The bathroom door was open a crack, but Stiles had dutifully left his things - jeans, grey t-shirt, obligatory plaid shirt, red 'Cyclones' hoodie, underwear and socks - outside as requested. Derek picked them up, ignoring the fact that Stiles was humming happily under the hot water. Stiles always sang in the shower, made-up songs about whatever had most recently happened to him - in this case a bastard sonofabitch taxi driver who was suffering the bites of a million fire-ants - and it was as endearing as it was irritating. 

By the time Stiles emerged from the shower, one towel snagged around his hips and the other draped over his hair, his clothes were in a warm, dry pile on the kitchen counter next to a bowl of steaming soup. His eyes lit up. 

"I assume you're hungry," said Derek.

"Always," said Stiles. 

"I'll leave you to it, then. I need to call Scott, he said he wanted to talk to me about something."

"Yeah, Deaton had a theory about that thing from the other day." Stiles shredded bread into his soup. 

"Okay. And will you…?" _Stay?_ Derek wanted to ask, but it seemed ridiculous, like he was inviting him, and of course he wasn't. Wouldn't. Wasn't.

"Can I just hang out and study? We've got this insane test tomorrow and with all that's been going on I've missed three classes, no time for homework and if my grades slip my Dad's going to be so mad. Worse than mad. Disappointed. Do you know what that's like?"

"Parental disappointment? Yes, actually, I do."

"Really? I can't imagine that."

"Try shifting in Macy's by accident because a labrador barked at you. My mother nearly reduced me to tears with one look."

Stiles stared at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously? A _labrador_?"

"It took me by surprise," said Derek, defensive again. "I'll go phone Scott."

Stiles was serious about studying. Derek came back downstairs after talking to Scott to find him dressed and sprawled across Derek's bed, laptop open, headphones on, humming along out of tune to some song as he tapped a pencil on the page of the book he was reading. Something clenched in Derek's chest; something painful and beautiful and choked-up and impossible, and he found himself striding across the room towards Stiles, when he should be letting him alone and getting back to his book.

"Hey," said Stiles, slipping off the headphones and smiling at him. "Scott okay?"

"Scott's fine," said Derek. "Studying okay?"

"Fine," said Stiles, tipping his head sideways to give Derek a quizzical look. "Are you okay?"

Derek watched the tendons and muscles of Stiles' neck shift, the shadows under his jaw, the pink glow on his skin, picking up tone from his hoodie. Derek swallowed, hard.

"Derek?"

"I-" But there weren't words, there just weren't. Derek looked at Stiles and wanted to be infuriated, irritated, even just amused would do - but he wasn't feeling any of those things. Derek looked at Stiles and he _wanted_ him. He liked that he was here, looking beautiful in a way he had no right to. It made Derek feel good.

Next thing he knew he was sitting on the bed with his arms wrapped around Stiles, everything warm and whole, Stiles making surprised noises but holding on to Derek without question, leaving a promising, lingering kiss at the spot just under Derek's ear, where he knew it was sensitive. 

Derek was mesmerized by Stiles' throat, his neck, the hint of collar bone at the edge of his t-shirt. It was loose, too big for him - suddenly Derek realised it was _his_ and could only wonder at when Stiles had stolen it - and it was so easy for Derek to hook his fingers under the neck and pull it to the side, revealing an expanse of shoulder and the tempting hollows around Stiles' collarbones. Breath stuttering, Derek ran his nose up from Stiles' shoulder to his jaw, relishing Stiles' gasp and the way he arched, bared his throat, his fingers stroking the nape of Derek's neck, encouraging him. His teeth found Stiles' ear; he forced himself gentle, licking more than biting, nibbling his way back down to that bare shoulder. He wallowed in Stiles' scent, in the thrill it sent up his spine, the warmth it made in his belly. Stiles murmured something indecipherable and pulled Derek closer. 

"Yeah?" said Derek, not even caring how needy he might have sounded. He _was_ needy. He needed this, needed Stiles, like this, he _needed_.

"Yeah," said Stiles, voice deep, and Derek's senses were flooded with Stiles' arousal. 

"You want…?" he asked, brain-fogged, words impossible.

"You? Yeah, I want you."

"I know, I mean…" 

"C'mere," said Stiles, with a sly grin on his face, and pulled Derek down on the bed. 

Derek buried his nose in the soft, warm place where Stiles' neck met his shoulder, where Stiles' pulse was strong and his skin delicate, and listened to the thump-thump-thump of Stiles' heartbeat as their bodies pushed in close. Derek's fingers fluttered over Stiles' throat; Stiles' hand was warm pushing under Derek's shirt and pants to rest, firm and steady, at the base of Derek's spine. 

Stiles dipped his head down, and kissed him. 

And Derek let go.

He rolled them over so Stiles was on top of him; kissed Stiles back with a heat and passion he'd never known himself capable of before, a growl purring in his throat, unable to get enough of the taste of feel or heat of Stiles' mouth, the persistent wriggle of his tongue. Stiles pressed on Derek's back, grinding their hips together, and Derek reached down to frantically shove clothing out of the way, desperate to feel skin-on-skin. Stiles moaned, a satisfied rumble, as Derek's cock rutted against his, and God, Stiles was so hungry for this; he tangled his legs with Derek's, getting better leverage to grind back, everything hard and hot and sweet, sweet friction. Stiles' eyes were closed, lashes fluttering, his cheek and lips and throat flushed, and the sight of it made Derek's breath catch in his throat. 

"You're…" he whispered.

"… coming," said Stiles, and his whole body arched, arms wrapped tight around Derek's hips as he writhed through it. Derek had never _watched_ Stiles come before, not like this, not so fast or so hard or so fucking beautiful. As soon as Stiles relaxed, spent, Derek kissed him again. Stiles responded lazily, humming softly into it, his hips still bucking a little, enough that Derek's cock slid through the sticky mess on their bellies. The scent of it conquered any heroic ideas Derek might have had about waiting like a gentleman through Stiles' comedown - he had a hand on himself in an instant and rubbed himself to his own orgasm in only a few swift tugs. He heard himself yell out loud, his head full of nothing but the desire to cover Stiles' pale, gorgeous skin with his come. His scent. His _everything_.

He came to a few moments later, Stiles flopped on top of him, warm and contented and pleasantly heavy, huffing little breaths into Derek's ear. It tickled. 

"You're mine," Derek said, with profound and revelatory insight.

"About time you noticed," said Stiles. "Now, fetch me more soup."

_~fin~_


End file.
